


Counters

by Spyrofury767



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, FREE SADS RIGHT HERE KIDS, Major character death - Freeform, Original work - Freeform, first work!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6243007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spyrofury767/pseuds/Spyrofury767
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you lived in a world where counters on your hands counted down until you met your soulmate? </p>
<p>What if your soulmate died without you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counters

**Author's Note:**

> Yaaaaaay! My first work! Mostly angst but ehh.... Ok yeah a lot of angst. PREPARE FOR FEELS FOR CHARACTERS YOU DON'T REALLY KNOW!
> 
> Also, listening to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P528ifPwXdg makes this beautiful.

The day I met my soulmate, the day I fulfilled my destiny, was also the worst day of my life. It started at 6:30 am, when I woke up to my alarm ringing loudly by my face. I’m a professional gamer, and as such, I need to wake up early. I quickly got dressed and headed for the office where I worked, the day just warm enough to walk. The little clock on the back of my hand had only a few minutes left, so I was feeling pretty confident about today. The counter tells me the time until I meet my love.

I had been walking for a while, looking around, wondering who was my life partner, when I heard the vicious squeal of car brakes and a man’s screech of ‘Look out!’. A car alarm started, and I spun around. 

Two cars, a black van and a silvery-blue Corrolla were smashed together t-bar style, a fire hydrant through the side of the van’s hood, water spurting out of a crack in the side of the red metal. Several people were standing by the roadside in shock or fear, having leaped away from the cars. I glanced to the side, only to see a splatter of bright red on the corner of the Corrolla’s hood, along with a streak of it along the black, cement road. At the end of the line, a young man lay limply, arm twisted at an odd angle, blood pouring out of a gash in his chest.

He was handsome, mousy brown hair shining in the morning light. It was pulled back, diagonally across the left half of his face, his eyes tightly shut in pain and fear. He was lythe and strong, slightly tanned and lean. His eyes snapped open, shockingly blue, and he rolled over for a second to cough up a wad of crimson, the red splatter shining against the grey-black pavement. I started to run towards him, wanting to help even if I didn’t know how. 

Suddenly, my clock made five, short, sharp beeps. I raised it in front of my face, and kept running. The clock had five seconds left.

4…  
Four beeps rang, and I was getting close.

3…  
Three beeps, quick and pointed. Something in my head was screaming at me to walk away.

2…  
So close as the two beeps pulsed, sounding distant.

1…  
I knelt down by his side, as the last, piercing shriek of the alarm sang out.

*Beep, beep, beep!* The alarm began it’s final rings, the last it would ever make, as I lay my hand on his. My heart turned to ice, veins hardening as the color drained from my face. If one person’s clock runs out, but the person who made their clock ran out, the crushee’s clock will reset.

His clock, a lime green screen with black numbers, was also beeping, is face showing a list of blinking zeros before shutting off. When you’ve met your true love, your clock will stop working and fall off your hand, the hole where it was to be covered with normal skin. Both our clocks turned black, but mine just continued to show 0:00:00:00:00:00, years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, in white. It didn’t flash, it didn’t change. His was completely off, and he looked up painfully from glancing at it, to smile at me. 

“Oh my God, we need to call someone!” I shouted, panic making my voice three pitches higher than normal.

“T-that won’t help,” He gritted out, his voice calm and contained. “I… Just need,” He glanced back at his clock, then mine. “To k-know your name.” He coughed out in a choked whisper.

“Darien. Darien Patroka.” I gasped, tears starting to form at the edges of my eyes.

“Good, good… I’m Mike. Mike Fitzgerald.” He whispered even lower, his entire form shaking in pain. “I wanted to die knowing who my love is.” He murmured, and I started crying quietly. 

“I should have died too, then.” I mumbled, tears stinging my slightly sunburned face.

“No. You’re still alive for a reason. It’s too bad, you are pretty. Really pretty, actually, what do you do for a living?” He smiled agonizingly.

“Pr-professional video gamer. Team Fortress 2 Scout.” I hissed confidently, using my job to relieve some of the tension, not that it worked well. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

“Wow. Then it’s a privilege to have my heart broken to you, because I always wanted to be a video game player. I work in animation, at ILM.” He didn’t stutter anymore either.

“Innovation Light and Magic? C-cool.” I cried full out now.

“I-It’s too bad. I’m sorry… That I couldn’t… Stay with you.”

I gripped his hand. “I’m sorry you have to go.” Tears dripped onto our clutched hands, mixing with the smears of his blood that streaked along the edges of my fingers.

“Me too.” He squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back. And then he was gone.

~~~

People say we all deserve second chances. Some people say most get theirs. I thought bitterly, rubbing the smooth screen on the back of my right hand, the white zeros glowing under my fingers, the rain pattering around my feet, streaking across my black coat. I didn’t. I never will. I stood up, the wooden bench creaking under my weight, as I looked across the street in the downpour, to the bright blue, fake flowers on the lamp post. They would never match the brightness in his eyes. Even in death they had been full of energy. I carefully crossed at the walkway, the dirty white, reflective paint being washed clean of all dirt, and any remainder of his death that had spilled across those white tiles long gone. I placed my own blue, real flowers beside his memorial. They seemed far too insufficient to replace the hole left in my heart. 

I guess I’ll never make it up to him.

I’m sorry, Mike.


End file.
